A Taste of What I Do

In “On the Thousand and One Goals” located in the First Part of Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Zarathustra discusses the many lands and people that he has seen. He says, “A tablet of good hangs over every people. Behold, it is the tablet of their overcomings; behold, it is the voice of their will to power.” As the section continues, Zarathustra discusses specific tablets which peoples hung over themselves and overcame themselves to a certain extent: “You shall always be the first to excel all others: your jealous soul shall love no one, unless it be the friend,” “To speak the truth and to handle bow and arrow well," “To honor father and mother and to follow their will to the root of one’s soul,” and “To practice loyalty and, for the sake of loyalty, to risk honor and blood even for evil and dangerous things.” As Nietzsche says, “Once peoples hung a tablet of the good over themselves. Love which would rule and love which would obey have together created such tablets.” It is in the light of “On the Thousand and One Goals” that section 4 of “On Old and New Tablets” located in the Third Part of Thus Spoke Zarathustra should be read and will now be discussed.

The section begins with Zarathustra declaring, “behold, here is a new tablet.” In so doing, Zarathustra is drawing our attention to something, some word of wisdom, by which we might overcome ourselves. However, before exclaiming the new tablet that we might hold over ourselves, Zarathustra asks the question, “but where are my brothers to carry it down with me to the valley and into hearts of flesh?” This has immediate Biblical reference. Consider Proverbs 3:3 in the Old Testament in which the Preacher says, “Let not mercy and truth forsake thee: bind them about thy neck; write them upon the table of thine heart,” and 2 Corinthians 3:3 in which Paul the missionary Apostle writes, “Forasmuch as ye are manifestly declared to be the epistle of Christ ministered by us, written not with ink, but with the Spirit of the living God; not in tables of stone, but in fleshy tables of the heart.” The tablet that Zarathustra is going to proclaim is going to immediately come into conflict with what is already taught and will need to be written in the hearts of flesh over what already resides there. What is this new tablet? “Do not spare your neighbor.”

What is meant by this new tablet? Immediately following Zarathustra’s introduction come the words, “Man is something to be overcome. There are many ways of overcoming: see to that yourself! But only a jester thinks: ‘Man can also be skipped over.’” That there is reference to the Prologue in which, “the fellow in motley clothes, looking like a jester” jumps over the tightrope walker, causing him to “[lose] his head and the rope, [toss] away his pole, and [plunge] into the depth even faster” is sure. Zarathustra continues, “Overcome yourself even in your neighbor: and a right that you can rob you should not accept as a gift.” The overall theme would seem to be man must be overcome and there is no way around it. Yes, the jester jumped over the tightrope walker, sending him hurling to the ground, but the jester is nowhere mentioned as having reached the other side of the rope. Any who tries to circumvent this path of overcoming, will never reach the other side.

This idea of overcoming yourself even in your neighbor also plays very portentously into the idea of pity being the greatest sin. How was it that God died? “God died of his pity for man.” In overcoming one must not spare his neighbor. As Zarathustra says, “And he whom you cannot teach to fly, teach to fall faster!” This theme is elaborated beautifully in the Gay Science, “The times of corruption are those when the apples fall from the tree: I mean the individuals, for they carry the seeds of the future and are the authors of the spiritual colonization and origin of new states and communities.” The tablet that must be held over the peoples is the idea that we must overcome together—no one person can skip over his neighbor and he himself reach the overman. It is collective, it is a unified development across peoples. As Zarathustra declares, “‘Myself I sacrifice to my love, and my neighbor as myself’—thus runs the speech of all creators.”

A word of caution is also given in reference to the new tablet: “He who cannot command himself should obey. And many can command themselves. But much is still lacking before they also obey themselves.” Just as mentioned in “On the Thousand and One Goals,” the only way in which the new tablet will be created is by love which would both rule and obey. Zarathustra knows that there are many that can command themselves at this point in time—many who are in preparation for their overcomings—but as of yet the cannot obey themselves. Only when this occurs will their overcomings be hung above them in triumph over themselves.

Idle Words

What do you want?

The words hung there. Even as the soft orange glow of the street lamp gave way to the rising sun, they hung there—still unanswered, unyielding. They were there as he had prepared for sleep. Would he have prepared if he had known? He could see them in the mirror as he brushed each tooth, working their way into his daily rhythm. No answer silenced them. They came and nothing assuaged them. They were there as he lay, staring at that same spot—right where the ceiling met the wall. A small spider had fitted a web in that spot, that spot where they hung. For what would later be realized as hours, the spider had continuously worked and toiled on its small home, housing the very words that would not relent. But now the spider was still. Yet the words pressed on.

Do spiders sleep?

Even as he thought it, he could hear the the words still there—the sound of drums beating in the distant countryside in some period piece that he would watch simply to hear his friends complain about later. The troops would be beyond the hill, listening as the drums grew louder—as the feet that carried them moved forward. The soldier would look at the small painting of his beloved as he waited for fate. She would wait forever.

His friends always complained about it. The music was too boring; the clothing was too bland; the hair was too perfect; the eyes were too brown: everything was wrong. Those things mattered to him. In music he saw life, in clothing he saw protection. Hair was his hair, and his eyes—who cared about the color. Couldn't they see? But how could they? Not even he could see it anymore. Yes, these things did matter to him. But were they what he wanted?

He knew why she had said it. Even as she got into the cab and disappeared into the city he knew, even then, what she meant.

Am I what you want?

His immediate answer was no, though she hadn't given him the time to voice it. The damage was done, and her retreat was one of triumph.

Did she know, he wondered. Did she know what this would do.

What is she? A child. They had grown together, living in an old duplex on the main highway—what was then the main highway. Her mother was a seamstress, always creating for others the work that was truly hers and hers alone. All he knew about her father was that he had been in the military—that is all she would ever let him know. Did her father have a photo of her mother as he waited for fate? Death is an interesting thing. All will face it, and yet we hide, maybe in some way hoping that we will meet it on our own terms. Is that what he wanted? To meet death on his own terms? Is that what she had meant?

No. He knew why she had said it. From the moment she ordered he knew it, not even telling him before hand—just blurting it out to the waiter, a child himself: “the soup d'jour.” The way she had said it still lingered, even after the teeth and the spider, her word lingered: “d'jour.” One word or two? They usually discussed their orders, as children discuss their rules: What are you going to get? That sounds good. Too many vegetables though. Where will base be? That's not fair; you moved the book. Well how am I supposed to get to base if you move the base every time I run? You never said you could move the book? Alright then, let's share a loaf.

But that was not it. She had said, “d'jour.” He remembered the first time they had heard the phrase. They had been watching TV at her house, while her mother prepared curtains for Mrs. McGlaughlin down the road—red curtains that would hang in her living room until the day she died. How strange to die in a room named living. Though for that matter how strange it would be to die in a room named bed, or bath. But living, there was something bitter in that. Mrs. McGlaughlin had come from Russia as a child, and it was held on good authority that her family was royalty, fleeing the onslaught of the communists. How ironic that she should choose to drape her house in red, he had thought. Her husband, the Scotsman, had made a fortune selling arms to the Iranians during the revolution. He left her able to afford such extravagance. But what was that? He left her able to afford such extravagance. Is that what he wanted? To find comfort in what she had left him?

The commercial flashed and they were back in the show—a small diner in the heart of Philadelphia. On the sign read, SOUP D'JOUR: PUMPKIN. Pumpkin soup? He knew that pumpkin seeds were often roasted and eaten by the older members of the neighborhood. But then again, pumpkin was also made into pie. But soup? What was this d'jour? He imagined some sort of yellow green pumpkin being mushed together, the seeds floating to the top, smelling of lemons. Who knows why one has such thoughts. It would be weeks until she would set him right. Apparently she had asked her mother that very day. Why did she wait so long? Why did she wait until he had already made himself a fool? The class had stared at him as he declared as victor that d'jour was a type of pumpkin—of the yellow-green sort which smells of lemons and is often used in diner soups. How simple it would have been for her to have told him that very same day—they had both been on the porch as Mrs. McGlaughlin collected her communist curtains. Why hadn't she simply said, “the soup of the day”? Because she had not wanted to. She had said, “d'jour.”

I am the one who earned the scholarship, she was whispering now, as she and the child discussed her choice of words in her order. I am the one who will study among the greats of the past while you stay here and rot.

The rest of dinner was the same—the same taunting. Water was to be taken from the tap, no ice. She had used the edge of the spoon to eat her soup, dipping ever so gently into the yellow-green broth as if disturbing it would defeat her purpose. She blew on each parcel, even after they had sat there for hours. Each spoon needing attention; each drop needing reflection and care. Every action deliberate and intended.

I am the one who will be there, she glanced as the fellow collegiate came over to the table to congratulate her. I am the one they wanted.

She buttered each bite of bread, holding it in her hand like a trophy as she gestured telling some story about Professor Jules. He of course knew the story well. Genetics had always been her passion. He could still remember the sound of her voice as she asked him to enroll. She would help him; she would make the class a breeze. Professor Jules had been teaching since before the Berlin Wall. For a man who had spent his entire life in the study of its basic components he seemed to still be at their mercy. What is the point of study if no answer is ever reached? What is the point of uncovering the foundation if the building will still erode? What is the point of tearing down the wall if the enemy is still there? Professor Jules had called for papers. She would of course write one. Professor Jules had stopped the class in the middle of lab-work to congratulate her. Each bite was buttered individually, as if her own little butter monopoly was being created before his eyes. Why didn't she simply butter the whole thing? Because that is what she wanted to do.

I am in control, she cooed. This butter will soon be cheese, made by a man named Jean-Louis, and this bread will soon come from a bakery at the end of the block—the Rue de Anything. I will go there everyday on my way to the conservatory, while you eat hot-dogs from Mohammed on 9^th avenue.

He could smell the onions as he sat there, watching her in her glory.

“No thank you,” was all she had said when the boy offered her dessert. A dinner of yellow-green d'jour soup, individually buttered bites of bread, a glass of water taken from the tap without ice.

You can't afford this, she was nodding as the waiter congratulated her. Don't worry. I will find someone who can. He will care for me more than you ever could. We will send you a postcard from our vacations to the Riviera. We will have three children. I will name one after my father. He will know why—he will know everything as he takes care of me like you never possibly could.

She was right. He couldn't afford dinner. But he had bought it. Is that what he wanted? To impress her? Is that what she had meant?

No. He knew why she had said it. Even as he whistled for the taxi, the one that would take her away forever, he knew why she had said it. Even as the words marched out of her mouth as they stood on the curb, he opening the door of the car—the rain pouring down on both of them.

Am I what you want?

The answer was no. The answer was no before they had sat down. The answer was no before she ordered the d'jour soup without following the rules of their game. The answer was no before the paper was accepted and Professor Jules stopped the class. The answer was no before Mrs. McGlaughlin picked up the blood curtains as he and she sat on the porch. The answer was no before her father disappeared and left her mother to prostitute her art. The answer was no. Then why had she asked it?

Did she know, he wondered. Did she know what this would do.

The alarm peeled into the silence surrounding him, joining the already thriving chorus of words orchestrated on the phrase.

What do you want?

The spider moved. The natural orange glow danced through the blinds. The butter knife sat silently on the plate. The soup was gone. The taxi disappeared into the dark. The curtains hung in the window. The father never came back.

He walked into the bathroom; still unanswered, unyielding. The extension chord sat silently on the shelf, even as the words chanted in the background. He stood on the chair. Is this what he wanted? None of it mattered anymore. There they hung—there they would hang.

Did she know, he wondered. Did she know what this would do.

He kicked away the chair, and the words fell silent.